Where once was laid an ink-soaked quill
Now void of presence, stories, and time
Yet, with thoughts to write, but lacking will
I refrain from the effort, on emptiness dine
My heart, it wishes to spew forth verse
But alas, the mind it takes no flight
Here I stand, for no better nor worse
Agape at the tools viewed there under light
To take of the seat of wooden support
Or lean on the desk so upright and waiting
I find not the words, no lingual rapport
While my mind echoes strong, still hesitating
Yet, know in my heart I have something to say
But I know not of subject, to pen you a verse
Then here I will stand and remain here all day
Or die of this block, whichever comes first